England stands at the Bar alone,
Nemesis rises to claim her own.
Ireland or Belgium-dare you say

Whose wrongs cry loudest this Judgment Day,
ENGLAND?

For not in a sudden, swift campaign,
The World as Mourner, was Ireland slain;

No soldier's steel plunged straight to her heart—
The sword you wield has a finer art.

Deep in the darkness of your hold

You forged it with hate, you weighed it with gold; You drew it with lust,

You swung it with sin,

Sure and stealthy you thrust it in,

And never have plucked it out again,
ENGLAND!

You cry aloud through the printed page
"For Liberty, Honor, the fight I wage!"
Australia, Canada, governed well?
Aye! They are distant, might rebel.
Ireland, helpless under your heel,

Proof of the value those words conceal!

You have wrenched their Celtic tongue away,
But their hate cries out in your tongue today,
And casts your treacherous past in the way,
ENGLAND!

Yet why the past do we judge you by?
Stricken Belgium must deny,

But we aloud to the world can cry:

"You pledged your Power to be her shield,

You pledged her the millions your conquests yield;

What help can now the wrong atone?

You pledged your honor-She fought alone,
ENGLAND!"

They have stood at the Judgment-Place,
The Saints, the Heroes of our race.

Through the long Night of the Tyrant's sin
Ireland has trusted her Cause to Him.
"Vengeance is Mine, I will repay,"
And God fulfills His Word today

Through GERMANY!

MOTHERHOOD'S CHANT

BY MCLANDBURGH WILSON

French or Russian, they matter not,
German or English, as one begot.

We bore them all and we bore them well,
We went for them to the gates of hell,
We are the makers of flesh and bone,
We have one foe, one hate alone-

WAR!

He is known to you all, he has called to you all,
He crouches behind each boundary wall,

He rides on the waves of a crimson flood,

He rides on the tides of our children's blood,
He lies of glory and sacrifice,

Of honor and fame and pomp he lies-
WAR!

Come, let us stand in the Judgment Place
And take an oath for the human race,

An oath our daughters, and theirs, shall take,
An oath no trumpet or drum can shake.
We hate no sinner, we hate the sin,

Not those who lose, not those who win.

We, the makers of flesh and bone,
We have one foe, one hate alone—
WAR!

You take the folk of our pain to slay,
That gold nor steel can ever repay.
You shall we hate with a lasting hate.
We will never forego our hate—
Hate of the heart and hate of the womb,
Hate of the cradle and hate of the tomb.
And you shall answer and make reply,
For we are partners of God on high.
What will you say before that Throne
To Us, the makers of flesh and bone,
WAR?

-The New York Times.

MARS, COMEDIAN

War, an international dementia alleged to insure the survival of the fittest, should be assiduously encouraged by all unfit members of society. The man with narrow chest and withered hand struggles under a decided handicap in the piping times of peace. He commonly sees the rich, witty and pulchritudinous female of the species carried off into "happiness ever after" by strapping fellows against whom he has no chance whatever in the sex arena. All this is changed, however, with the declaration of war, and the arrival of the recruiting officer. Apollo Belvedere is the favorite fodder of the machine gun. Shrapnel screams with joy as it increases an athlete's chest expansion from seven inches to thirty feet. What matters it if ten thousand mothers weep and wail and gnash their teeth over the details of victory. Who taught their handsome sons to love war? These are but the tears of shameless recantation. Let them turn for comfort to little Oscar whose dry cough kept him out of the army; to Minnie and Hal at the State Home for the Feeble-Minded. Let the unfit dead bury themselves. These that survive are the fittest.-Life.

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